Nobody really paid the changes any mind at first. We all assumed they were nothing but incredibly minor ailments. The kind you’d barely acknowledge and, more often than not, keep to yourself and expect to fade with time. I did at least.

It was nearly a year ago when I noticed the first change. It was late, I had just gotten home from work and headed straight for the shower. As I washed myself, I noticed what looked like a pimple on my thigh. It was hard to miss, so it must have been new. It didn’t look strange, maybe slightly more orange than I’d expect, but the way it felt definitely was. It was hard like acrylic. I didn’t pay it much mind.

A few weeks later I went to my annual checkup at the doctor’s office. After I had my height measured the doctor told me I’d shrunk nearly half an inch. We laughed it off, I was getting up there in years afterall. I also noticed, if only for a moment, a bump on his forearm like the one on my thigh.

There came a point where the bumps could no longer be dismissed. They kept appearing on different parts of my body one after another, and more and more I noticed them appearing on the people around me. Eventually it became a topic of conversation. Eventually governments made statements. They had no explanation for what was happening, but they said they had their top scientists working on it.

At work I noticed myself struggling a little to type on my computer. It seemed my fingers, save for my thumb, refused to move independently from one another at times. Not enough to be a real hindrance, but enough to be annoying. A few of my coworkers were having the same issue, and we assumed we’d gotten some form of carpal tunnel. We petitioned to get ergonomic keyboards, and that seemed to solve the issue. Must’ve been placebo.

After a while, we’d all encountered similar issues with the mobility of our hands and lost enough height to notice, but not quickly enough to completely disorient us. It was hard for anyone to deny the changes without lying to themselves. Everyone was afraid, I know I was, but we at least had to try and go about our lives as normal. We hadn’t lost all hope yet.

Scientists scrambled to solve the changes, and ultimately prevent us from reaching a point of no return. At least they did until their fingers began to fuse and they could no longer use their equipment. We were all forced to abandon our work and our passions as our bodies became incompatible with the society we’d built, and it collapsed as our human desires faded.

One day, I decided I needed to see my mother, as I found that even my love for her was fading. She was hesitant, afraid to see what had become of her son. I could hardly recognize her when we met. All her hair had fallen out like the rest of us. Her face was unnaturally wide and her eyes were beady. It was nothing I hadn’t noticed about myself in the mirror. As we met in front of my childhood home she tried to give me a hug, but found that her new anatomy prevented her from doing so. She ran back inside crying. That was the last time I ever saw her.

Our skin hardened and segmented as our bones dissolved, and soon we found ourselves shambling sideways through the streets, first on two feet, then four, then six, and then eight. We had all given way to instinct as we all began making our way to the same place. I can’t speak for everyone, but to me the human world no longer felt like my home. I had to make it to the sea.

I scuttled for miles past everything I was leaving behind. The office building where I used to work, the doctor’s office, my old highschool, my childhood home, and the hospital where I was born. I could only barely recognize any of it. The memories they evoked didn’t register as my own. I shrank smaller by the day, and the distance between me and the ocean seemed to grow more immense at the same rate, but I had to keep going.

Eventually, the sea stretching into the horizon was within my sight, and as my claws first grazed its sandy shores all memory of what it was like to be human washed away, and as I first submerged myself beneath its salty waters I knew my transformation was complete. I knew what I had become, what we’d all become. I was a crab.

Disclaimer:

This is a short memoir that I wrote about an experience I had with someone I am seeing. Please note that this is a PG-13 piece. While there is nothing sexual it does involve non-sexual intimacy (note that its not dirty). It is a romance memoir, but it is rather chill. The memoir focuses on my feelings and experiences as I navigate past trauma and my first relationship.

I never thought I’d have this. I think, as I wrap my arm more tightly round you. I dreamt of this during lonely nights spent crying. Imagining a fantasy I never thought would be fulfilled. I feel as though I’m floating above myself as you hold me. But your steady heartbeat against my ear brings me back. The rise and fall of your chest as you breathe. These are the tangible proofs that I hold onto. These are the things that ground me. Happy, I begin to realize, I feel happy. I’ve been happy before, but never like this. Safety encompasses me as you place an arm around my shoulders and rest your hand there. The knowledge that you chose me, you chose me.

I can feel the soft brush of your hand on my neck. But I don’t freeze. I just sit and enjoy the pressure as your long fingers brush my neck. It is a brief moment, and then I feel your thumb on the inside of my thigh. I find myself enjoying the feeling. Enjoying the vulnerability, I would have shrunk away from in the past.

You get up, unable to sit still, and I move to the couch and watch you. You walk around, bounce a ping pong ball on a paddle. Then you come back and sit on the floor in front of me.

I find myself playing with your hair. Running my hands through the thick strands, and gently rubbing my fingers over your scalp. You lean your head back against my crossed legs and I lean down resting our foreheads together. I ignore everything else, lost in this moment as I close my eyes and caress your cheeks with my thumbs. I feel the rough texture of your stubble under my hands. I remain there, my thumbs continuing their journey. After what feels like a lifetime, I lift my head and open my eyes. Your light blue gaze meets my hazel eyes and I feel as though I will melt.

I get up and join you on the floor. We fall easily into our previous position. My head returns to your chest, my arm resting across your stomach and my hand at your waist. Your arm returns around my shoulders. And I can feel your hand resting on my waist. Your hair tickles my face, but I don’t care. I run my fingers up and down your arm. Your skin is soft. Your breath is steady.

I look up at you, my own hair falling over one side of my face. You look down at me and smile, before briefly moving your hand from my waist and brushing my hair gently to the side. I smile up at you and you return your hand to its resting place. My head goes back to your chest. My body is turned towards yours and I hold you tighter. I shift slightly and your hand moves on my waist, careful not to move too low.

Your hand moves once again from my waist and caresses my cheek with your thumb, your fingers curled. I melt into the touch.

This is really happening. I try to stay in the moment, but I find I want to cry. Joyful tears, I reassure myself. I fight not to fall into my sorrow. I fight to not fall into that fear. I don’t want you to know. I wouldn’t know how to explain my tears to you. I don’t know if you’ll understand how much this means to me. How much I need this. And what if you did? What if you understood? What if that made it worse? So, I fight my tears, and the desire to leave my body behind. It would be easier to simply float above myself. But I don’t want to miss this. I want to be here with you.

I want to be here I want to revel in the feel of your body. But why? Why do you like me? I could sit here for ages and list all the great things about you, but I just can’t figure out why someone as fascinating as you would choose someone like me. I wish I could ask you. I just don’t know if I can. Is that allowed? Would I even be able to get the words out? What if you don’t have an answer? What if it makes you realize that you chose wrong? I pull my mind from these raging thoughts; from the pain that I know you will not inflict on me.

I fight with all that I have. I ground myself in the reverberation of your voice in your chest. And it works. I remain there in your arms. Wrapped safely in a cocoon.

The putrid odour of his room made it difficult to swallow spit. My throat grew tight and unpleasant, perhaps from fear more than the smell. Either way my eyes stung, watering profusely, my tongue got dry. The bag was laying far away, abandoned somewhere in the corridor. Its contents would not leave my poor thoughts alone. Now and then my mind burned with a longing to go looking for it, to search the gaping hole of a corridor for signs of the bag. I turned away from the door.

His face drew closer, looking at me shark-like. His eyes, absent-minded like a predator dazed by fresh blood, gazed relentlessly at my lips. Grease in his oily hair reflected the cold hue of street lamps outside of the window. I shivered slightly, feeling the pests of unease crawl up my back. Having taken a long breath, bravely ingesting the foul smell all around us, I reached for the back of his neck. The tips of my fingers began stroking his skin, and as he murmured with pleasure, we dived into his sheets. The unfulfillment festering in his flesh would soon be gone, licked clean.

Once we were done, he fell into a deep slumber. The limbs, untidily abandoned by his consciousness, seemed to trap me on the bed, heavy and dead. I was afraid I’d wake him on my way out, but none of the sort happened. In the dark bowels of his apartment I found my bag, untouched. The stones of anxiety crumbled from my chest. I was free, on my way back to the surface, aching to breathe in the crisp air of the world outside.

The door shut behind me like thunder, and I ran, crushing the dove of early winter snow beneath my worn shoes. Mornings like this promised salvation, and who was I to deny myself deliverance? In one hand, I was clutching my saviour - swinging in the air frenziedly, the bag betrayed its contents with harsh, clinking sounds, honey for my weary ears.

Rushing, I caught the delicate fragrance of fresh bread spilling out on the streets. The man shakily stepped outside, balancing mountains of pastries in his arms.

*** If you made it this far, thank you so much. It's a little novel I'm writing, unsure how the first pages perform (Yes! The character's name is Thebes like the ancient city!) If you're interested to read more, reach out!

Hi all! First time trying to write something and just trying to gauge how people feel about my story and writing in general. I'm sharing some rough notes and story bites from the first half of a book I'm trying to write and would love any critique or commentary.

For any context going in, the main character is Federico Alarcón Pedroso and the book navigates his life. The document is 2,519 words and jumps around from (as it says) his childhood and then into the war. I intend to elaborate more, this is just my compiled thoughts and literary plans for future.

Hoping you're well! Please enjoy.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1sKp89IrJ5zpIMJUDnOttNtv1aWkLYRKzFjVpFgm-zzc/edit?usp=sharing

Living in an environment that constantly keeps you on edge can make you believe that being easily angered and anxious is just a part of who you are. But then, when you find yourself in a stable and peaceful setting, you come to realize that you possess a natural calmness and tranquility. It's like a light bulb moment when you understand that our growth and demeanor are greatly influenced by the environment we find ourselves in.

Link to the page: https://www.reddit.com/user/FareonMoist/comments/1bx99f3/first\_page\_of\_the\_last\_philosopher\_the\_question/

This is a rough draft for a project on innocence. Any and all feedback is welcome!!

Action figures and Swingsets

Growing up, my dad loved to play with action figures. It was magical to him. The action figures came to life in his hands. It was as if Superman himself was in the basement with him flying around, and the wind from the cape was hitting my dad’s face. Spiderman was shooting webs in the corners of the room. Civilians were cheering in the background. My dad was in the middle of the Marvel universe in his basement in 1974. He played with his action figures every single day. His parents had to pry them out of his hands to get him to come to dinner. He was just so enthralled by the mystic and wonder he held within his grip. It was the best thing in the world to him, his own little escape.

My dad’s parents started fighting when he was four. It grew from short spurts of bickering to absolute mayhem within a couple years. No matter how well behaved he was, he could not stop it. He tried to do what they told him, but it was all so contradictory. All he wanted was peace, but all that was there was chaos.

One day, in the midst of a pretty bad fight my dad headed down to his basement and he pulled out his favorite action figure. He got down on the floor and started to play with the toy, but that’s all it was. Superman wasn’t really in the room with him, there were no spiderwebs anywhere, the room was silent, the Marvel universe was just something from the movies. There was nothing. He pulled out toy after toy, but it was all the same. The magic was gone.

Growing up, my favorite relative and best friend was my cousin, Ella. I had three brothers and three other boy cousins, so it always felt like me and Ella against the world. Six boys versus two girls, and the boys didn’t stand a chance. I loved flying to D.C. to visit her, it was like going to a foreign land to play. We would go to the pool, or the park, or just play inside with her toys. Whatever it was we chose to do, we had a blast. Our favorite activity, however, was to play on her swing set. I sat on the left swing, she sat on the right swing. We would be so high up, it felt like we could see the whole world. We would laugh so hard and yell so loud. It was our own little hideaway. No boys allowed.

One morning during my seventh summer, I woke up with a pit in my stomach. I walked downstairs and before I even said a word, my brother shushed me and brought me into our family room to sit with him. Our mom was on the phone in the hallway. I looked up at him and I whispered, “Ella’s dead?” He nodded his head. A few days later, we were driving to DC.

We get to Ella’s house and immediately my brothers and Ella’s brother head down to the basement to play video games. I stay upstairs. Alone.

I find Ella’s toys and pull them all out one by one. I played with them just a month ago, but somehow they all seem so childish now. I look out the window and the swingset catches my eye. I love that swingset, I think to myself. I go outside and sit on my swing, but there is no one next to me. I pump my legs as hard as I can over and over again, but I can’t see over the trees in her backyard. It is silent. I let my legs fall and I let my feet drag along the ground until I come to a stop. I sit in the silence until I hear something behind me. My dad sits in the swing next to me, “I’m sorry I couldn’t stop it,” he says to me as he rubs my back.

This is a quick poem I wrote at work this morning that I've titled "Hands." I'm curious to hear anyone's thoughts, good or bad!

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Escaped in rainbow worlds, I float away

My thoughts attempt at company

I lose myself in swirls of song and dance imagined

Like…

Imagine sights beheld abroad in silenced awe!

Imagine salted air surrounds your skin at sea!

Imagine moans of passion sing a song of life!

Imagine that these joys are not for me

Then… hands?

They coax my ankles underneath the clouds

And threaten me with life but gone unseen

Weighed down with hands I feel my cold and muddy body

Weighed down with hands, at long last, I feel Me.

The Humming Bird That Loved Sister and Brother

By Stars Moons Suns

Many thousands of years ago, a sister and a brother played on a most sacred mountain.

Springs overflowing with bubbling water flowed from large rocks from the foothills of this mountain. The sister and brother had developed a habit of walking a well-established trail that emerged from the main tribal lodge down the foothills to the springs, and along a stream fed by spring water, lined with massive Cottonwood trees.

Mother had instructed them to fetch the water Gitche Manitou breathed into. Every now and then one of them would stop and observe a new wonder of nature. When one would stop, then, the other would stop and notice, too. Walking along the trail, they looked at many different flowers, a chipmunk, a bunny, and a gray fox while eating dried raspberries mother had given them in a pouch. Uncle, who was walking up the trail towards them, said greetings with a smile, holding a clay pitcher of bubbling, delicious water in his hands walking back to Auntie.

Uncle was Father’s Brother. He had the same face as Father, and, although older, was more than half a foot below father in height. He also walked with a limp. Father said he was no good for hunting but good enough to protect the vulnerable of the tribe while the other men hunted.

Father had gone out with a hunting party the day before, and had not returned yet. He told Mother he must go, for the tribe to have enough food and clothing for the coming winter.

They finally arrived at the bubbling springs. For the first time by themselves, they filled their clay vessels with effervescent water. They were pleased with themselves, and they smiled at each other.

Suddenly, a chirping flying creature zoomed above them, flying into a lodgepole pine branch hidden from their view, that was growing near the river the spring fed into. Sister and Brother looked at each other, shared a thought instantly, and at the same time both gently put down their containers. Without a word, they begin walking in the direction they saw the chirping creature fly. They quietly crept over the soft forest floor, searching, and eventually, they found what they were looking for.

(pic of hummingbird vesica pisces eggs)

Brother asked Sister, “Do you know what it is?”

Sister said, “No, let us ask Gamma Fire-In-The-Eyes.”

Brother agreed. They carefully picked up their waters and began to walk back up the mountain.

Some said Gamma Fire-In-The-Eyes was a witch, who would scorch the bottom of naughty children with a look, but Sister and Brother had only found warmth in her eyes. Besides, they were always good children.

After Sister and Brother had given Mother the waters, they walked to see Gamma Fire-In-The-Eyes alone on top of the mountain, sitting next to a fire.

‘Gama! Gama!’ they exclaimed.

Gamma Fire-In-The-Eyes smiled.

Gamma spoke, ‘Greetings, my dears, what have you come to me for?’

They told her about a most mysterious chirping creature that beat its wings so fast you could barely see them, and the nest with eggs they had found.

‘That is Muutataachi, a Most Magical Creature. They do not fly like a bird, but float, and move in the Seven Directions, by mixing magic sounds with their Spark.’

Sister added, ‘They dance with every direction as we do when we pray to the Great Spirit.’

Brother asked, ‘How can a Hummingbird have a Spark and not catch fire?’

Gamma Fire-In-The-Eyes, smiling, replied, ‘This Spark within and around the Hummingbird is usually invisible and is the Fire of Spirit. All living creatures have the Fire of Spirit within and around them. Even the Rocks I used to start the fire that is warming us.’

After a pause, Gamma, smiling, added, looking at the campfire, ‘The Rocks I collided with gave a Small Spark that came from the Big Spark within the Rock.’ She paused, looking into the fire. ‘ Yet, even the Smallest Spark can become The Greatest Fire,’ said Gamma-Fire-in-The-Eyes, smiling.

For a few moments, Brother and Sister were silent looking into the campfire, meditating on what Gamma Fire-In-The-Eyes had told them. Then they heard Mother’s whistle beckoning them home for dinner.

They both said, ‘thank you’ to Gamma, hugged her, and walked back to Mother for the evening.

The next day Sister and Brother quietly walked to the base of the fir tree next to the creek that held the Muutataachi nest in a branch reaching out over the water toward the sun. Suddenly, they heard the familiar chirp.

The Muutataachi spoke to them through their minds with wordless thought, saying, 'please leave my nest alone.'

'We promise to leave your nest alone.' Sister said out loud.

'Yes, we promise.' Brother added. After a pause, Brother asked the Muutataachi, 'May we be friends?' The Hummingbird replied, 'Yes. Would you please do me a favor? The flowers have wilted in this area and I require the sweetness of flowers to float.'

'We could squeeze berry juice into a cup,' sister suggested.

'Raspberries have ripened in the grassy valley downstream,' brother said.

'That would be wonderful, and I would be most grateful,' said the Muutataachi.

It was decided then. Brother and Sister walked to the valley downstream, and, picked the raspberries. They placed them into one cup, crushed them with the round part of a deer bone, and dripped the resultant juice into another cup. They had managed a precious mouthful for a human, but enough to nourish the new friend, Muutataachi.

When they arrived back to the fir tree next to the river housing the Muutataachi nest, then, their new friend was waiting on a lower branch of the tree, closer to them than he had ever been. Sister and Brother both held the cup up to the Muutataachi, and it drank the berry nector.

'We should give you a name of your own, Muutataachi.' Brother said.

'How about 'Chirpy'?' Sister chimed.

'Yes, I love the name,' Chirpy communicated the thought.

Mother whistled.

'It is time for us to go, Chirpy,' Sister said

'We will get you berry juice when we can, Chirpy,' Brother spoke, from his heart, before turning, and running home with Sister.

When Father arrived the next morning, then Mother embraced him and would not let go for some time. He told her good news. The hunt had gone well. The tribe would have enough food and material to survive the coming winter.

When Mother and Father finally separated, Brother and Sister told Father about the Muutataachi and nest they had seen.

'Gamma told us it floats mixing magic sound with its Spark,' Sister said.

'We became friends and fed it berry juice,' Brother informed.

Father smiled, yet his face showed a trace of sadness. He wondered how he could tell Sister and Brother that Gamma-Fire-In-The-Eyes would soon be in the Spirit World.

The next day, Gamma Fire-In-The-Eyes was lying on her back with her head propped up by wrapped felts. Her ten children each held one finger-three daughters, seven sons. Her eldest twelve grandchildren circled around them. The Eldest Son was shaking a rattle from a snake on the end of a small spear. It had a white Eagle feather and a black Raven feather attached with threads of buckskin.

Gamma spoke.

“I am the last of our people that remembers being created by The Great Ones deep under this sacred mountain. Our numbers have expanded greatly. We must not over hunt the animals on this mountain, but maintain harmony with All-That-Is. My three daughters, for the sake of peace between our peoples for as long as possible, weave your threads into the fabric of our neighbors to the east, and the south. My eldest son, keep your family on this Sacred Mountain, but always welcome your Relations back to visit. My other six sons, you must bring your families into the mountains to the north and west.”

Sister came running into the Sacred Circle with tears streaming down her face like the water that fell from The Sacred Mountain.

“No! I don’t want you to die!,” Sister screamed, sobbing, tears flowing from her eyes, as she broke through the Last Circle Ceremony, hugging Gamma Fire-In-The-Eyes.

Gamma Fire-In-The-Eyes smiled, and said gently,

“I am not really leaving you, my sweet child, for where you are, always, I AM for ALL TIME. Know for certain, that I have put a Growing Spark from My Spirit within everyone's heart and eyes who is here, within every rock on this sacred mountain, within every tree, within every waterfall….and,” Gamma gave Her biggest smile to Sister, her eyes gleaming like crystals, “every Muutataachi.”

Those words spoke out Gamma Fire-In-The-Eyes last breath. Sister felt Her spirit flow into and through Her, into the other members of the Young Nation.

Sister held Gamma, weeping inconsolably, Her tears streaming continually, like the waters falling from the Sacred Mountain.

Even the bravest warriors could no longer hold back their tears. The sacred streams mixed with red marks on their faces dripping down their checks and necks held memories from when they were children, and every emotion, all at once.

Although she did not give birth to most of them, Gamma Fire-In-The-Eyes was a Mother to them all.

There were many tears, as they sang the Sacred Songs, and as they planted a Aspen tree above her grave. Traditionally, they planted a Cottonwood tree on a grave, but Gamma had requested her favorite leaved tree instead.

After some time, they finally dried their eyes, and they discovered

A New Happiness within.

A New Fire was growing within their hearts and eyes.

Gamma was Now The-Fire-In-Their-Eyes.

They did as Gamma had instructed them. Her daughters interwove their threads with the people of the east and south. Her sons had split into Seven Tribes of The Mountains into the west and north. They distributed themselves to minimally impact the populations of deer, elk, fish, antelope and other animals they traditionally hunted. Everywhere they went, they overcame obstacles, and the large beasts respected the Fire they saw coming from their eyes and hearts.

Even The Great Ones were astonished, asking each other, ‘Who lit the Fires in our Children’s Hearts and in their Eyes?’

Gamma’s children knew, and insisted on remembering. The Young Nation named the most sacred mountain they had emerged from

TAH AVWAS.

THE MOTHER.

This was both in honor of Gamma Fire-In-The-Eyes and The Great Mother Who through, in, and as, Gamma fanned the flames of the souls around the early members of the Young Nation. As their numbers grew, every year they conquered new areas. Every new mountain they tred upon, they planted a Aspen tree, and bent it, forever bowing, toward TAH AVWAS, along the trail that led back to TAH AVWAS.

Every year, for thousands of years, members of seven tribes of the Nation and Close Relative tribes walked the same trails of their ancestors, back to

TAH AVWAS

They did this for several thousand years, until the New People came.

Even so, parts of these ancient trails blazed by The Children of Gamma Fire-In-The-Eyes are still in use today, by people from around the world, some from the Original Nation, and many having threads of Close Relative Tribes from the south.

The day after Gamma Fire-In-The-Eyes funeral, Chirpy came to visit sister and brother. Sister told Chirpy that she was leaving to go north with the family of Gammas second son, and that Brother was going south with the family of Gammas first daughter.

Chirpy told them her eggs hatched, and that Chirpy and her family would visit sister during the summer time, and brother, during winter. Ever since, with each new generation, the Muutataachi visits the north in the summer, and the south, in the winter.

The next day, Sister and Brother looked at each other for the last time. They smiled at each other for a while, and with a slight nod from each to the other, silently turned around, walking away from each other.

Words were no longer necessary for each of them, and neither was physical closeness. They would always feel the others' love, for they had both placed Sparks from their Spirits into each other's hearts, to live there, for the rest of Eternity.

Hey everyone, this is a story I started writing years ago but then kind of fell off writing it. I'm gonna pick it back up now, but I'd like some input on what I have so far. As it stands, I had written rough drafts for the first four chapters and saved them on my google drive. Please, read them and feel free to critique them as much as you would like! My end goal with this is to become a published author, and this would be the first book in a long series that mixes both science and fantasy together. Thanks in advance for all the input!

Chapter 1 [585]
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Q46TvdaEWpCcsc1TUU-lFJf3N7lXqRf3oAxU5tpIR0c/edit?usp=sharing

Chapter 2 [871]
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1LG04jo2uBVpYTjInQ8j1jputUEPBKGmmJHu0NMBoEIQ/edit?usp=sharing

Chapter 3 [660]
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1G5zP3xTuK8mS4_R6Rf37eL-nZnlKZ_3nr1NyKEzPc-4/edit?usp=sharing

Chapter 4 [471]
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ig9KuUFUrIL0gwDm2Uyi4NIgFdrIDbDiRAclLbKY1E8/edit?usp=sharing

​

I wrote this poem a while back and I'm wondering if it narrates something to you or makes you feel something?

"The wind snatches at us It is howling the song of death The skies are pouring life onto me And yet I am walking to you

The stone is harsh against my soles I can feel the earth shaking They are holding me back Yet I am walking to you

In your brilliant yellow glow I can see the heart you're hiding The violet that devours, destroys And yet I am walking to you

You burn me, I embrace you. You consume me, I let you. In a melting of flesh and fire, In the burning of a funeral pyre You unchain me, I nourish you.

With grins and chuckles Like old friends we part-- Free, eternal.

Ashes, ashes the sky is grey. In the end, it all burns away."

Hi ! I'm 15F and I'm writing a speech to educate my school on the current affairs going on in Gaza ! I would like some constructive feedback and some ideas on what to write :)

How many more lives need to be lost for them to realize how bad the situation is? Is the 30,000 Palestinian people dead ( and counting) not enough for a ceasefire? Is the 10,000 people missing under rubble not enough for a ceasefire? Is the thousands of pro palestine protests not enough?

UNICEF has reported every 1 in 3 children under the age of 2 are acutely malnourished in Northern Gaza. At least 23 children reportedly have died due to dehydration and malnutrition. Babies are placed on hospital beds with tubes attached to them. They don't even know what's happening around them. Imagine those were your children, your siblings, your cousins, your nieces.

How does the government decide to stand with Israel? A country who stole land from Palestinians? A country who had trapped Palestinians in the Gaza Strip for over 57 years? How does the government stand for the murder of innocent people? All because they want to be on Israel's good side? They are sacrificing the lives of thousands just so that they can live a luxurious life. They are sacrificing lives of innocent children whose childhood was taken away just so that they can afford to go on vacations. The blood is on their hands.

Catching the sun's rays mimicking the days never-ending phase Not amused by the direction of naive indiscretions

Clearly in a daze everything a haze a winding maze parade and misbehave blaze and play charades Wasting time

Struggle to choose continue to lose Confused Random thoughts escape my mind Mangled they intertwine then unwind

Creating a void in space A lonely place No one wants to go only the unlucky know how dark and deep it goes Below the earth it echoes beckons and then swallows Then one day it is tomorrow and there is only sorrow

But in life I have found miracles abound And in the morning without warning A wave appears Filling the dark empty hole It renews my broken soul releasing me from darkness

I smile as it nears Dry my forgotten tears suffocate my fears Make my way up through the blue Breathe like brand new Realizing at last what had always been true Everyone deserves love and this includes you

Title: The Firth of Forth
Genre: General Fiction
Word Count: 889
Type of feedback: General impression, line-by-line edits, anything is fine by me. I'm interested in whether it is too serious.

The Firth of Forth

I exited my front door and entered a steam room. The sighing of the trees in the wind and the dripping of the water onto the pavement was Scotland. My apartment building was situated in a tiny close, the cobblestone wall punctuated by ancient doors leading nowhere. The stars faintly shined from above and the streetlights responded with yellow light from below. The muffled noise of men returning home from the pub drifted across the cemetery that separated the back of my house from the high street of Queensferry. I wandered.  

The call of the night birds was white noise. I took out a small plaid flask obtained from a tourist store. I took a swig of Famous Grouse, and I poured some into the foliage, for the Green Man. The summer months were coming to an end. Canadian winters were shining ice and blistering blizzards, but now I faced an onslaught of dreich.

A small raspberry bush hid from the lane. Some shriveled berries clung to the branches. I picked one off and crushed it, feeling the grit and watching the red spread over my fingers. A black cat trotted out of the bushes, taking no notice of me. I crouched down to beckon the cat over. He only had three legs. I ran my hand over his fur, his coat like a warm summer night. Its purring rattled up my arm. Then it realized I was a stranger, and it darted off back into the bushes.

The ragged closes and lanes of a village are empty at night. These cobbled paths are where I am never lonely. I work as a bartender, ripping off tourists and giving them a view of the North Sea. They sip espresso martinis and watch the oil tankers fill their metal stomachs at Hound’s Point.

I feel the familiar pull as the fog descends over the tiny town and I see the lights from the The Forth Bridge; a red iron behemoth that towers over the water alongside its two brothers. It’s a beautiful night for it, and perhaps I will come back, perhaps not. I am dwarfed by the monolithic bridge. The traffic is a distant roar, soothed by the dark blanket of night that falls over the North Sea. I climb through the tear in the chain link fence at the base of the bridge.

I wrap my hand around an iron column. The paint flecks off, the wet metal cooling my palms. The vibration runs through my arms and I lift left my foot up, hooking the sole of my boot into a crook. I hoist myself up, and I am off the ground. I climb. I look behind and see my tiny apartment building in the midst of the night. No one knows I am out here. I don’t even know if I am out here. I begin to move sideways. As I move above the water, I feel a gust of wind. A seagull swoops beside me, a startled screech from his mouth.

I let go. The wind roars in my hair, my stomach turns, and I am free. The salt water fills my mouth, my eye are blurred, my ears are full of the roar of the water as the cold fluid engulfs me. I sink, deeper and deeper into the black, floating through the sea. I resurface, and I swim back to shore, near The Anchor Inn and the RNLI station. As I walk up the stone steps out of the water I’m greeted by the stares of an old man.

“Did ye just…”

“Yeah. Do you want a drink?” I’ve found it to be the most effective way of communicating with other villagers.

“You don’t sound like you’re from the Ferry.”

“I’m not. I’m a Canadian.”

“A Canadian? In South Queensferry?” He stares at me, his mouth agape in disbelief. “Why?”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s beautiful, aye? Nothing like the broken Tiffany chandelier in the Stag. London was great, next stop, South Queensferry. I dunnae ken why anyone would want to spend their time in this town.”

“Yeah, well.”

“Well is right. Get out of here before you’re pulled under too.”

I turn and begin to shuffle down the lane. I stop and shout over my shoulder.

“If you hate it here so much, why do you stay?”

There is no one there. The bushes at the end of the lane rustle and shake. I stare in disbelief, down to the library and the abandoned police station. A seagull cries overhead and swoops down. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, but I’m shivering. I turn and begin walking back up the hill towards my home. I pass the scarecrow that overlooks the whole village.

In a village growing on top of itself, there is no where to go but down, to carve up the undergrowth until you find the roots, locked on themselves. Relief can be losing oneself in the roots, or never putting them down. A choice has to be made. I have no roots, and no home. To the village foliage, I am nothing. I cannot help deliver nutrients. My existence passes by with nothing more than a shrug.

I enter my apartment and turn on my shower to drown out the sounds of the birds.

Thank you for reading.

So I'm writing a book with my friend, with our own characters that we made, and we want it to be a like a POV book, so different perspectives. But it's hard to write in povs when beginning, if anyone has experience please help

Hello :-) I'm new to reddit so hopefully I'm doing this right! I have written 3 first drafts - all YA fantasy. With my work and kids, I only have time to move forward with one of them, but I'm not sure which one!! I have included the first 400ish words of chapter 1 of each novel. Please note this is a first draft so the writing won't be brilliant, I'm really just wanting to know which opening draws you in the most, and the one with the most votes will be the one I continue with.
Thank you all so much!

1. Chapter One

The bells tolled in the valley beyond. It was the third time that month. Six tolls. The most it had been all year. Tavora’s eyes fixed on the eastern horizon, watching for the brilliant blue flash that came - as expected - illuminating the distant tree-lined hills with a cyan glow.

Briefly lowering her hood – a fleeting moment of respect for her fallen brothers and sisters, she nodded low and pulled it back, throwing her freckled face into shadow once more.

“It was just sympathisers, I heard,” Henry called to her, stepping out from the dense woodland behind.

“Where’d you hear that?” she asked, not turning from the east.

“Gossip at the inn, another man came across from Eastwicke just this morning,” he sighed.

“Their shallows are dry?” she asked.

“Aye, but the fish are long gone from here too, mind.”

The grey storm clouds began to roll away from the hills, dissipating into the dull blue skies overhead. Tavora took a deep breath, held it tight in her lungs, then released it back into the blowing wind, calming her racing mind.

“Perhaps they’ll bring down the rock wall, if the people continue to starve,” she said, but tutted, shaking her head.

“I never had you pegged as such a dreamer,” he tittered.

“No - though lately-” she trailed off, scanning the horizon one last time, before turning to her friend, “-it matters not,” she tried to match his goofy smile, but the corners of her mouth faltered and she sighed instead.

“Lately - what?” he ran a hand through his wild, chestnut hair and arched his brow.

“Nothing. We should get out of the open,” her cheeks prickled as she strode past him back to the shelter of the trees.

“I’ve never been one to give up easily, you know,” he laughed hurrying after her, quickly gaining the lead with his long stride. Turning to walk backwards through the tangled ferns, he gestured for her to stop.

Obliging, for she knew his stubbornness well, she pointed to the river that ran down towards the south.

2. Chapter One

I was born of the dawn and sea. A newborn baby in a basket, gifted from the sea to the shore, via the rising sun. Naked, soaked through and half frozen, I was clutching a hand scrawled note simply with the name ‘Mara.’

And so it was told by the priestesses of the dawn to prospective parents, and they were told in return, time and time again, that it was a bad omen that the sea had spat me out, and thus, I had never been adopted. It was not in their nature to lie of my origins, and if it were, their vows to Ansha, Goddesses of the Dawn prohibited it, and so I never found a mother to love me. Perhaps that is the reason for the following events, or perhaps it is simply my excuse.

Abandoning the dirty plates and crockery in the kitchen, I snuck to the library to read in peace. From beyond the shelved walls, I heard the priestesses singing their hymns to the goddess as they always did after supper.

With the sound drifting under the closed doors, I shut my eyes and tried to pick out Priestess Ahnn’s voice amongst the caterwaul of the other’s. Once my ear was tuned to it, I pressed my shoulders into the leather armchair, sinking deep into the crevice that was moulded by time into the shape of me, and opened my book.

A brief History of Athovan. I could recite it word for word since I was eight. I flicked to chapter three hundered and twenty five near the end. Running a finger across the illustration of the ship fleet that sank the last pirate ship, I cursed them under my breath. Eleven years ago they restored peace on the seas, and nothing interesting had happened since - yet the people still feared the sea. I was still regarded a bad omen. I skimmed the chapter. Demarion’s ship was destroyed, his body, never recovered, presumed eaten by sharks or other such creatures. Thirty nine thousand gold coins pilfered from his sinking ship. A mere fraction of his expected wealth. The rest never found. The crew surrendered and were quickly executed.

Snapping it closed, for I was in no mood to read chapter three hundered and twenty six, I stood to return it to its shelf. Pausing for a moment, I noticed one of the doors was now open. The singing had ceased - early.

As if a predator was lurking in the shadows, my skin prickled. I was its prey – spotted out in the open and now doomed.

“Hello?” I called out.

“Hello, Mara,” a shadowed figure replied from behind the carved statue of Ansha, and I shivered, for I was indeed doomed.

“What do you want?” I asked, sliding the book into its rightful place. Wracking my brain, I tried to remember what I had done wrong this time.

3. Chapter One

A coldness rose from the calm ocean like the mist that engulfed us. My bare arms prickled with goose bumps as I heaved the ore through the water.

“I don’t understand!” My father’s aggravated mutters cast a silence over the remaining crew.

“Are you sure you are reading it correctly?” my mother had to ask.

“Am I sure I am reading it correctly?” father had taken the bait like a makka fish snapping at a maggot, and although I could not see him at the rudder behind, I knew his face had reddened.

“Well, are you?” I admired the way my mother could calmly persist with her teasing, despite the danger we were in.

“These charts have been handed down for a thousand years, father to son, king to prince. Reading them is in my blood, and I have navigated us to each island with no issues,” he seethed.

“Until now,” I said, rolling my eyes at my mother who smiled sympathetically, for she knew my insecurities. Father to son. King to prince. He knew the words he spoke in front of me – his only child - his daughter.

“Perhaps we have steered off course then,” she said.

“The ocean king does not steer off course!” he shouted.

“Any sign of the others?” I whispered to Kalb - sat crossed legged in front of me, he watched the waters with an unwavering concentration.

“No, miss,” his matter-of-fact tone hid the fear I knew ate at his heart – his wife and child were gaining behind. Before the storm. Now they were gone. They all were. Twenty-six boats – vanished with the thunder.

My father’s mutters ceased.

We sailed aimlessly without sound – save the splash as the oars rose and fell, for a while longer. My hot breath formed clouds with every exhale, swirling for a brief moment like the smoke of a longed for campfire, before dissipating into nothing.

A twinge of pain began at the fingertips of my right hand, intensifying as it reached my shoulder. I gave a slight grimace - only a brief look of pain, a flicker, nothing more, but it was enough for my mother.

“Kalb – Kalb –Teeva requires rest – your princess needs a rest!” she called out from her seat.

“With pleasure,” he sprung to his feet and bowed low.

“I’m fine, mother, Kalb, I am fine,” I said, gently circling my aching shoulder, hoping they would not see. But a fruit fly could not land on mango without my mother knowing of it.

“Teeva, come – rest,” she commanded, and I passed the oar to Kalb.

Hi all! Republishing my first book and wanted to tighten/shorten the blurb on the back. This is a YA fantasy novel, let me know your thoughts!

Zakolor thinks he’s the son of the village blacksmith, which isn’t entirely true.

When his nightmares start coming to life, he learns he is heir to one of the most powerful magical bloodlines in Valecium — one that defeated the gods.

Once his power is unleashed, two sides locked in a century-long war vie to control him. The Consortium accidentally kidnaps his best friend Kalbick, leading Zakolor to join the League of Kingdoms as his only hope to save him.

But something dark is buried in his magic, and if Zakolor wants to save his abducted friend, he must untangle the mystery of his power before it consumes him.

Looking for advice on nailing down a solid readership before se ding oit the query letter for my recent young adult scyfi/fantasy novel... open to suggestions and appreciate everything.

Chapter Thirty: Oath Honored

  Three years and three days—that’s the exact time since I last held Ray in my arms as he slipped away. Today’s the day I’d been running from, today was the day I would stand before Laura and her daughters, Melissa, and Melody, to honor a promise. I was here to tell them about their hero, husband, father, Sergeant Raymond Stevens, and his final stand in Alqosh, Iraq.

Haunted by that promise, I’ve skirted this reckoning for three years. But Michelle’s steadfast presence had shored up my resolve. I’m ready to meet their gaze and share the raw, unvarnished truth. It’s what you do for family, for the brothers you fight alongside. And Ray was both to me.

Missouri, the “Show Me State,” America’s heartland, with its two mighty rivers, supplies the lifeblood of our nation. It would be my stage today, where whispers of summer still linger in the air, greeting September with a soft, welcoming embrace. I’ll weave my tale against the backdrop of an Indian summer Saturday, painted with strokes of golden sunlight and caressed by a whispering autumn breeze. Under a pristine blue sky, adorned with the last blooms of summer.

With a heart laden with memories, I’ll speak of a man who embodied the very essence of valor. Amidst peril, he was the rock his brothers could lean on, his laughter a soothing salve in the unforgiving desert, his determination a living embodiment of the soldier’s creed.

The day that changed everything began just like any other, with the usual routines and the familiar hum of the Humvee’s engine. But fate, it seems, had a cruel twist in store. Steven had taken my usual seat, a decision that would irreversibly alter the course of our lives. When the explosion came, it was devastating—a maelstrom of dust and shrapnel, obliterating the right side of his face and wreaking unspeakable trauma upon his body. Yet, amidst the chaos, Steven’s indomitable spirit shone through. His final words, conveyed to me with a clarity that belied his condition.

A constant echo haunts my thoughts, tearing at my heart—his apology. “I’m sorry, Top. I messed up… I’m sorry! I’ve let you down!” Then, his fear broke through. “Top, I’m dying, aren’t I? I don’t want to die alone.” And then, gratitude mixed with sorrow. “Thank you for everything, Top. Please tell my family I love them. Tell them I’m sorry I won’t be there… to watch them grow or protect them,” he said. As his grip on my arm weakened, a profound silence enveloped us. Those were his last words—a soldier’s farewell, brimming with love and an unwavering sense of duty, even as he took his final breaths.

With Michelle’s comforting presence beside me, we took our seats at the picnic table set in the heart of the neighborhood park. Around us, the trees swayed gently, their leaves dancing in the soft breeze. My gaze settled on Laura, Melissa, and Melody as they approached, hand in hand, a united front of strength and grace. Rising to meet them, I felt a solitary tear escape, tracing a path down my cheek before falling to the earth below. It left a dark mark on the ground, a silent witness to the sorrow that words could never fully express.

My steps were hesitant, each one heavier than the last, as I bridged the gap between us. I had only made it halfway when Laura let go of her daughters’ hands and ran towards me. Her arms flew open, and she crashed into me with such force that it stole my breath. She wrapped me in a tight embrace, her head nestled against my chest, seeking solace in the midst of shared grief.

Laura’s question pierced the air, a mix of confusion and pain woven into her words. “Why has it taken you so long to reach out, Wyatt? Why not right away?” she asked, her gaze fixed on me.

The twins, Melissa and Melody, their grey eyes locking onto me, allowed their silky blonde hair to be teased by the light breeze. Without a word, their intense gaze echoed their mother’s question, amplifying the silent scrutiny.

These three were far from strangers to me. I had been a guest at Laura and Raymond’s wedding, and it was I who drove Raymond to the hospital for the birth of his two beautiful and precious daughters.

Trembling, the words tumbled out between unrestrained tears. I couldn’t bring myself to meet her gaze, afraid she’d see the truth in my eyes—that it was me who had failed Ray. “Laura,” I choked out, “it should’ve been me. Ray was sitting where I was supposed to be in the Humvee. I let him take my place. It should’ve been me, not Ray…”

Laura’s words cut through the fog of my guilt, her voice commanding yet laced with emotion. “Wyatt! Look at me,” she implored, her eyes searching for mine, a silent plea for me to truly hear her. “Raymond loved being a soldier; he loved serving with you. For God’s sake, he never stopped talking about you! He loved you, Wyatt!” Her affirmation was a soothing touch to my tortured soul, a reminder that Ray’s choices were his own—made out of love and respect, not obligation or expectation.

Gazing into Laura’s soulful pitch-black eyes, I found only care and understanding. She wrinkled her nose and nodded slightly, a silent gesture asking for my recognition of her heartfelt words. It was a moment of connection, a silent communication that spoke volumes beyond words.

I nodded my affirmation.

Laura’s grin was a prelude to the gravity of her question, her eyes widening with anticipation before closing in a moment of bracing for the truth. She squeezed harder, a non-verbal cue for support, as she asked, “Tell me, Wyatt, tell me how did Ray die?” The question hung between us, heavy and expectant, awaiting an answer that would change everything.

I took a deep breath, steadying my nerves. “He died in my arms, Laura. He knew he was loved. I called him my son, and… he smiled at the sound of my voice.”

Melissa, the elder twin by two minutes, spoke up, her voice barely above a whisper. “Was Daddy scared? Did he think of us?” she asked, her eyes searching mine for the truth.

I couldn’t shield her from the truth—she deserved more than that. “Yes, sweetie, he was scared,” I admitted. “But not of dying. He was scared for you, for your sister. Scared that he wouldn’t be here to watch over you all.” I paused, gathering the swell of emotions threatening to overflow. “And yes, he was thinking of you.” Gently extricating myself from Laura’s embrace, I knelt down, reaching out to take her hand and softly coaxing her to join me at eye level.

I opened my arms, and they came into my embrace, allowing me to wrap them up in a collective hug. “Yes, he was thinking of you,” I assured them. “His last words were a message for you—he loved you, and he was sorry he couldn’t be there to see you grow and to protect you.” Together, we cried, united in our sorrow for our friend, father, and husband.

In the sanctuary of our embrace, I shared with them how I cradled him, whispering assurances that he wasn’t alone. “I got you, Ray. I love you, son,” I had said, my voice steady amidst the turmoil. His final words, though faint, were a testament to his character—filled with love and selflessness. I recounted the honor of mentoring Raymond, of being there in his last moments, feeling the life ebb from his heart. But I spared them the harrowing image of his disfigured face and broken body. That burden was mine alone to carry.

Melody’s eyes, filled with the innocence of youth, met mine, and her question was a whisper of concern. “Was Daddy in pain?”

I took Melody’s hand in mine, offering a reassuring squeeze. “Your daddy was incredibly brave,” I told her softly, ensuring my voice carried the weight of truth and comfort. “Yes, there was pain, but he was stronger than it all. And in those final moments, his thoughts were of you, filled with love—that’s what mattered most to him.” My voice faltered as I continued, “The medic… he was right there, and he made sure your daddy wasn’t in pain. He didn’t suffer, sweetie. Surrounded by his brothers-in-arms, we all made sure he felt nothing but love.”

With a gentle touch lifting my chin, I opened my eyes, no longer burdened by the weight of my story. There was no fear, no anticipation—just the captivating presence of Laura and her daughters. Laura’s voice, soft yet assuring, reminded me, “The chaos of war spares no one. You, above all, should know this. Raymond’s death was not your fault, you do not have to carry that.” Her hand rested on my shoulder, and I understood—the tear in her eye was for me, a shared sorrow beyond words.

I could finally put Sergeant Raymond Stevens to rest. My oath honored; he would no longer haunt my dreams; I would now remember him only fondly.

Four pairs of eyes were fixed on me, but it was Michelle’s silence from her spot at the picnic table that spoke volumes. The love from those four remarkable people enveloped me, its warmth surging through me. As our embrace with Laura and the twins came to a close, Laura’s gaze shifted between Michelle and me. Her eyes held a question that hung silently in the air, one that I answered with a knowing nod and a smile that mirrored my inner gratitude. “Well,” Laura began, a playful curiosity in her tone, “why don’t you introduce me to the woman who complements you so well?”

Hand in hand, the four of us turned and made a beeline towards Michelle. My gaze met hers, her eyes locking onto mine, her smile as wide as the crescent moon in the night sky. With the Stevens ladies by my side, we walked up to Michelle, who stood silhouetted against the late afternoon sun. Her red hair seemed to blend into the sun’s fiery hues, setting her aglow with an ethereal light.

Michelle and Laura found solace in each other’s arms, their silent conversation one of mutual respect and shared history. I stepped back, allowing them the space to weave their own tapestry of comfort and camaraderie.

Turning to Melissa and Melody, I saw the spark of their father, Raymond, in their eyes. Beneath the veil of sorrow, there was a glimmer of youthful curiosity, a silent plea for an escape from the weight of their grief. “How about we find a bit of adventure?” I suggested, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “Let’s kick off our shoes and feel the earth beneath our feet. To the swings? Wanna race?” I questioned.

With a nod, we slipped off our shoes and socks, the cool grass tickling our bare feet. The earth was soft and welcoming, grounding us as we lined up for our impromptu race. “On your mark, get set, go!” I shouted, and we dashed towards the playground, the wind catching our laughter. The twins, with their youthful energy, reached the swings first, claiming victory with giggles and cheers. It was easy to let them win our foot race; small victories in their lives would be important. I made a solemn vow to myself to ensure I was around to make sure they had plenty of them.

As they swung back and forth, higher and higher, their joy was infectious. For a moment, the park was filled with nothing but the sound of happiness, a fitting tribute to a father who had loved life so fiercely. It was a reminder that even in the midst of sorrow, there can be moments of pure, unadulterated joy—a lesson from Raymond that would always linger in the air, just like the whispers of summer. My joy swelled, remembering Sergeant Raymond Stevens youthful enthusiasm on the confidence and obstacle courses.

The twins and I were left to the most simple of joys—swinging. Without a care, I watched, enjoyed, and surrendered to it. So engrossed was I in the joy and laughter of the twins that I was startled when hands were placed on each of my shoulders; the one on my left belonged to Michelle, and the one on my right, to Laura.

Michelle playfully grabbed my left arm, gently twisting it so my beloved diving watch faced her. After a quick glance at the time, she turned to me with a warm smile. “Wyatt, how about we all go grab a bite to eat? It’s lunchtime,” she suggested.

“Ah, the eternal BBQ conundrum—rubbed ribs that whisper secrets of spices to your taste buds, or wet ribs that give you a saucy smile with every bite. Choosing between them is like picking a favorite star in the sky; they both shine in their own right. But fear not, for whichever you choose, the only true dilemma is whether you’ll have enough napkins to handle the delicious mess!”

“Alright, Melissa and Melody, it’s decision time,” I say with a playful tone. “We’ve got a tough choice for lunch—do we go for the classic BBQ with those ribs calling our names, or something else entirely? What do you think?”

The twins hop off the swings, their faces lighting up with the thought of lunch. After a brief huddle, they turn to me with wide smiles. “We want hamburgers!” they announce their choice clear and unanimous.

I chuckle, amused by their unexpected decision. “Hamburgers it is! A surprise twist, but who can resist a good burger? Let’s go find the best ones in town.” With that, we set off on our new quest, the promise of a delicious meal ahead of us.

The five of us joined hands and headed for the parking lot, our next adventure: finding the best hamburger in the world. We’d start our quest in this little bit of Missouri. As we walked, a vivid memory of Ray popped into my head—oh, how he loved to eat, even if it was just a lame MRE.

After a few years of writing bits and pieces of things, I finally finished a story. It's just a few pages. A narrator meditates for 5 minutes. I'm just happy to be here.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-Y2ZNO72-8T49KOGNFk15El6VR75GESp6dqYqBMZ_n0/edit

It’s 12 am again. Days have passed without recognition and I don’t know which direction is up. A drum beats in a cavern where my heart used to belong. It’s tattered and abused, devoid of energy but still working in overdrive. My temperature rises and falls with the breaths in my chest. Solstice betrays me even in the depths of the night. The silence is too deafening to endure. Covers on, off, one leg out—it doesn’t matter. I know I’m not going to sleep. A war rages inside me that hides from the outside and encapsulates every atom of my body. I can’t hide from it when it squirrels away deep in the crevices of my soul. I’m entrenched, disconsolate, and unhinged. Even still, I plead, beg, and barter into oblivion. Any relief from the torment. I wonder who could bestow such a burden but only hear my own voice echo back.

I’ve climbed into the darkness willingly. Every step was of my own volition; every choice was my own. But I never thought I’d venture so far. Never would I have expected to find myself so deep that the possibility of light seemed more foreign than the comfort of obscurity. But the light never reaches the bottom shelf—not really. By then, I was entranced. I reach with my eyes closed intentionally. Nothing could look as good as the venom felt.

The angst burns my throat going down. There’s still a sick humor in the contortion in my face with the first swallow. The bottle has always provided a much too familiar companion. Once introduced, we shared secrets no one else could comprehend. We lived ten thousand lives in a fraction of the time. We were interwoven into each other's DNA. A tale of love and unwavering devotion that culminated in a life of misery, loss, and destitution. I gave my life was returned a corpse. Though not sudden, the transformation seemed to wash over me organically, as if it were always meant to be mine. A tale of star-crossed lovers. I'm reminded of what becomes of such works: a tragedy with no one left to repair the broken. I wonder if the withering effect of my choices on my memory hinders my ability to remember how much I hate this story.

I’ve felt this before. The feeling is not foreign, I’ve visited this land in years past. Not once, not twice, but third times a charm. It’s an ache bubbling up from the depths of my soul. It’s true what they say though… the first cut cuts the deepest. It hurts less the second, and even less so the third, but the aching pain is still there deep down… floating to the surface unexpectedly, like an old friend.

An old friend that reminds you of each time you gave it a shot. Each time you let your guard down and let someone in. Each time you doubted at first and then fell in, hopefully, head first. Only to realise you that the deep dive is not infinite, it has a bottom. Each time my head, and my heart, hitting the ground with a violent smack.

The free fall was worth it though. In fact, it was exhilarating. The water was warm, welcoming, inviting. But in the depths of the ocean, as you near the bottom, the water temperature drops, and then, you hit the bottom, like an anchor dragging out at sea.

Still worth it, but the abrupt halt is jarring. The butterfly heart thumping ceases to exist unsuspectingly. It shakes you to your core. Makes you question everything.

But this is life, right? What goes up must come down.

Hello. I have a question. Two weeks ago I published my first book, and what I’ve discovered is that there is a whole process to go through to market a book and actually get sales. . Any tips for that.

And my specific question is, from your experience, which is better to market a book and generate sales, Amazon ads or Facebook ads?

Author's Note: I've taken an interest in writing stories recently, prior to this I mostly written for my TTRPG setting or for notetaking. I want to make my world come alive and I figured writing fiction would be the easiest way to make that happen, not that I expect writing well is going to be easy, I just think it's easier to write a story then it is to make a webcomic or drawing. (I come from an art background) My hope is to have enough experience to write a book about my fantasy world's setting and characters. In fact despite not featuring lore or fantasy elements this short story does take place in my urban fantasy world. but you don't need to have context to enjoy the story. I hope you enjoy it.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Eu3VuH5PZBjzZZoDgPttnJaxSrtKWrDMHZqvnt_yhaE/edit

Today was the 1st of the month, which means it’s payday for the Double Vision Detectives. Ryan has used his share of the pay to buy a new video game, but when I say one I mean a seven-year-old open-world RPG that Ryan initially slept on but later came around to giving the game a try. It was the post-apocalypse game called Nuclear 4. Ryan was a fan of this series of RPGs, while he didn’t care for the first two games that came from the 90s but were happily playing Nuclear 3 and Nuclear New York. While he didn’t like how the fourth game added a voiced protagonist that somewhat gets in the way of roleplaying as a character with their voice and that the game somewhat streamlined the game a bit too much for a roleplayer’s liking he decides to let go of his opinions and give the game a fair chance.

His partner and leader of the duo Michael had bought more novels for his reading pleasure. He liked writing and reading quite a lot. He preferred physical media as digital just didn’t feel right to him. He had many novels stored in his room in the old Art Deco building the duo operated their investigation agency. He had a bit of every genre and a few series books to boot. He also had a habit of writing stories in his free time. He mostly writes about the cases he and Ryan take in the city of Elysium.

An hour after they both started their respective hobbies, Michael eyes Ryan’s game. While not a gamer himself he always wondered why Ryan would pour so much time into those games. Though he had known Ryan for long enough to know his friend was a weird one when it came to hobbies. It seems like every other day he picks up a different hobby. Ranging from art to even creating games of his own… Ryan rarely if ever finishes these hobby projects. But video games seem to be the exception to this rule. Why is that? Thought Michael. He decides to take a break from his new horror novel and goes to check out Ryan on the living room couch.

Ryan notices Michael standing right behind the couch with a curious eye. “What’s up, dude? Curious again?”

“Yeah, what is it about these games that you like so much?”

Ryan is a bit surprised and replies. “You mean this game or just games in general?”

“Both…You almost always come back to those games, you often switch hobbies and you almost always play video games without fail. What keeps you invested in them?”

“Well…I like them because they are fun first of all. But I get the feeling you’ll want specifics…okay let’s start with the game I am playing right now, Nuclear 4, it’s a Roleplaying game or RPG for short. Though admittedly I think it has more in common with action games with the direction their going but they still focus on story and characters.”

“Story and characters? You mean there is a narrative to this stuff?”

“Yeah, it’s like your books only it has gameplay, graphics, and other stuff. Though the main character isn’t a blank avatar for you to roleplay like the older entries in this series you still have control over how you interact with the characters in the world. You can even build a specific playstyle based on perks and stats as your character levels up.”

“Levels up, I thought levels were places.”

“It’s an RPG term for character progression, you do stuff that gives you experience like kill enemies, explore and complete quests you gain experience and if you gain enough you increase your level and get stronger…I think it’s meant to simulate the feeling of growing stronger as you play the game.”

“So it means the character’s level of power, okay that makes sense. So what’s the story about?”

“Well the game takes place in the post-apocalyptic wasteland, a guy steals your son after murdering your wife and you have to find him.”

“Don’t suppose you could get more detailed in explaining the story?”

“I’ll admit I mostly enjoy the gameplay over the story, there are tons of lore and world-building put into the game though so I think you’d like it if you ever gave it a try.”

“You think I should play this game?”

“Well not right now as I just got it, but after am done I can walk you through the game, and help you get started…hey Michael, have you ever played a video game before?”

“I tried an arcade game once when I was a kid but I lost quickly and got mad I lost a quarter to the machine…not a fun time for me.”

“Ouch, arcade games can be brutal. But I think this game can be a better introduction to the medium for a bookworm like yourself.”

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A few hours later Ryan setups a new game on Nuclear 4 for Michael. He’s at the character creation screen. A man with a plain face and hair is seen. Ryan hands Michael the game controller. “Okay this is character creation, here you make a look for your character. You can choose your gender, hair, and facial details here.”

“Gender? You can be a woman in this game?”

“Yeah, I made a girl brawler in my game named Melody. What kind of character do you want to be?”

“Wasn’t the intro said by the man character though, wouldn’t it make more sense to play as the man?”

“Well yeah, but you have the freedom to do what you want here. Because you usually read that one series with the girl detective. Maybe you’d want to make a character like that. That’s the best part about this game, you are given freedom from the start.”

“Well that would be- wait, you’ve been reading my books?”

“Guilty as charged I was going to ask you permission but I was afraid you’d say no…you took great care of these books.”

“...Well I suppose we can call this a hobby exchange then. You teach me about this game and I’ll teach you about books. Just promise to let me know before you take books from the bookshelf, you already know how much I care for these books.”

“Done deal.”

A few minutes have passed as Michael configures his recreation of his favorite detective protagonist. He finishes the creation and names Sarah before finalizing the character. He then reaches the stats screen for the game and calls Ryan over to help.

“Ryan, what do these numbers mean? It’s asking me to choose them.”

“Oh that’s the stat selection screen, in RPGs you tend to have stats that affect different things your character can do. For example, if you want to use melee weapons you’ll want to raise Strength. I think it also affects other things like carry weight but it’s mostly the melee stat.”

“Oh…what stat lets me use guns better?”

“That would be the Agility stat, it affects regular guns and sneaking.”

“Is there an investigation stat in this game?”

“Yeah, well kind of. Perception is the stat that lets your character see things that others tend to miss. It’s also the Energy weapons stat.”

“Energy weapons? What are those?”

“Laser and plasma guns, real sci-fi stuff. They're harder to come by but they are pretty good once you get them.”

“Which one do you recommend?”

“Well, they're both viable options, I’d say Guns are easier for beginners to build around as normal guns are everywhere in this game but you’ll find a good energy gun given enough exploring and shopping. Honestly, I’d spec into both types of guns in the skills screen on level-up. It’s pretty easy to level their respective weapon skills. The real concern is how much you put into the stats as you’ll have to choose which stat you prefer.”

“Wow, this is quite complex…I didn’t expect to have to do math for entertainment today.”

“Yeah RPGs tend to be pretty complex but it helps create unique character builds in the game. I’d put most of the points into Intelligence so you gain more skill points on level up so that you can put points into both weapon skills when you level up.”

“Okay, I’ll put points into Intelligence and Perception as those are the key traits of an investigator like Sarah…What about the other stats? It seems like I only have a limited number of points to spend on this screen.”

“There are two ways you can go about this. First, you can choose to sacrifice points to try and balance out your bad stats at the cost of losing points for your preferred stats or you can just leave those unspent stats low and live with the consequences. It’s up to you which way you go with it.”

“Sounds like I lose something either way. Why does this game make you bad at things if the point is to make a strong character?”

“It’s simple, in RPGs the challenge comes from the choices you make in the game, some RPGs with character building do this by making choices matter to your playstyle by giving them weaknesses and strengths. Not every character is made for the same playstyle or build. My brawler for example doesn’t use ranged but needs high Endurance to survive being shot at while in fights. It also supports roleplaying in the game.”

“You’ve always talked about this ‘Role-playing’ thing when you talk about these RPGs, what is that exactly?”

“Well it’s when you pretend to be someone you're not, The Nuclear series lets you pretend to be anybody you want thanks to the character’s dialogue trees and stats. I like to recreate my favorite video game and TV characters and pretend to be those characters in the game.”

“That sounds…rather childish.”

“Well yeah it does sound childish, but it doesn’t have to be a childish story you're telling when you play pretend. Any kind of character you can come up with can be played in games like this. Just look at the pretending as a sort of theater play made just for you rather than a simple game of pretend.”

“Wait I just realized something, you leave every week to go play a similar game with people in the evenings right? Is this game the same thing as those trips?”

“What? Oh wait you mean my Tabletop RPG group visits? That’s another thing about video game RPGs. They take heavy inspiration from Tabletop Roleplaying games. They share a lot of the same game mechanics and themes. I could explain more but that would take all night.”

Michael and Ryan continued playing the game for the next few hours, Michael while skeptical at the idea of pretend did try and play a character in the game. He encounters many characters and quests and he tries to complete them in a way that fits his character’s personality, he may not have understood the appeal at first but he rolls with it. Ryan is happy he was able to share a hobby with a friend. Little did he know how far Michael would take this, however.

========================================================================

The week after Michael played Nuclear 4 he started playing the game a lot, Sure Ryan still had his turns with it because it was his console and game but even Ryan didn’t play the game as often as Michael. At first, it was quite fun to have a fellow gamer to talk games with. But Michael just wouldn’t stop talking about the game. He would talk about the story and lore, the best weapons, and even which NPC follower was the best to bring along. Michael went from being a bookworm who had never touched a video game in his life to a die-hard fan of the Nuclear series of games. Ryan wondered just how long this interest would last.

Ryan had taken to his friend's books seeing how long his friend was going to be playing Nuclear 4. He didn’t mind sharing his game but is worried his console could overheat with the hours Michael spends on the game.

The book Ryan is currently reading is a fantasy novel about a monster slayer’s life in a fantasy world. The reason Ryan picked his book is because it reminded him of his favorite fantasy video games. It was pretty good. Ryan’s thoughts turn to the jobs the duo were going to have to return to as the money from the last job is starting to dry up. Ryan closes the book and puts it back on the shelf in Michael’s reading room. He then walks towards Michael who hasn’t slept in hours with bags under his eyes. His brown hair was a mess under his favorite hat. “This was worse than I thought.” thought Ryan. perhaps it’s time for Michael to take a break before he collapses on the floor from lack of sleep.

“Yo, Michael…it’s been a week and the money’s starting to dry up. I think it’s time we get back to work.” Michael was glued to the screen with dead eyes and jaw open like a zombie. “Michael, hello! Are you even alive?” it takes Ryan waving a hand in front of his partner’s eyes to snap him back to reality.

“W-What? Ryan?” says Michael as he finally responds to his friend and partner. “What’s…what’s up.”

“It’s been a week dude, am glad you found a new hobby but we still have to work and the money from a week ago is already drying up. We gotta find another case to solve.”

Michael rubs his eyes and lets out a short yawn as he stretches his limbs. He says “R-Right, I guess I forgot the time- wait you said it’s been a week!?” he exclaims in surprise.

“Yeah dude it’s been a week since you started playing.”

“Crap…hold on I’ll get ready and then I’ll join you in looking for a case. I need a shower.”

Michael hands Ryan the game controller, it is still wet from sweaty hands that have held it for hours on end. Ryan then uses it to save Michael’s game for later. While Michael is gone Ryan has a thought, what does his friend’s game look like? Ryan first entered third-person mode and looked at Michael’s character, she was wearing a trenchcoat and detective’s hat. On the character, Sarah’s back was a laser rifle that was modded extensively. Her hair was red and her eyes green. The face was pretty basic, character creation in Nuclear 4 had its limits but Michael seemed to make a good character despite those limitations. Next Ryan checks the items in Sarah’s inventory. It had what Ryan expected to see in a late-game character of this game. Many healing items, a few modded weapons, and scrap used in crafting. He then checked the stats and skills of this character, Michael maxed out Energy Weapons, repair, and medicine, he also had high lockpicking and speech. Seems Michael decided to focus solely on Energy weapons after all. Ryan remembered that Sarah had a follower with her so he exited the menu and checked, it was the robot detective. A good choice thought Ryan, he should have known Michael would latch onto a follow detective Ryan had enough of snooping around Michael’s game and simply saved the game and turned off the console.

A few minutes passed before Michael returned from his shower in fresh clothes. “Let’s roll.” “Okay, you lead.” The duo opens the front door of their building and walks out toward a new adventure. Both have learned more about each other from the shared experience.

Little blurb from a fictional story. Any advice on how to expand or make better?

“Don’t worry. Death is coming for you dear,” the angel says as she follows the crumbling body. His face feels like a mask breaking as glass does against a concrete floor. The face being worn sinks as he watches as their lips curve into a wicked smile, “You can’t run forever.”

I wanted to be unique but I think I went too childish. What do you think?

The Shadow of Shadows

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Lilith is a shadow that wants to be a light. She finds the Sun Palace and starts looking for clues about how light and shadow interact. She finds these cute little creatures called Photons that like to fly around as fast as they can and decides to study them. Apparently the Photons are slaves to the Light and get sucked and broken or reflected by whatever object Light hits and their absence turns into Shadow.
Lilith, shocked by this discovery, decides to help these little guys not die when they hit something. She finds the Sun Queen and tells her not to kill Photons anymore. The Queen replies that Photons are the essence of life for both Light and Shadow. Unfortunately it's their fate to serve them both.
Lilith is stubborn though and decides to look into how humans perceive the Light and Shadow. She starts following a human and enters his eyes. There, she finds the fat Iris King, he's stuffed with Photons in his mouth and is annoyed that a shadow has entered his realm. He demands to know what Lilith wants. Lilith asks why he likes eating Photons. "It's the only way I can see" he replies.
Lilith finds him obnoxious and decides to visit the stomach and asks if they can make something else for the Iris King to eat. "He can eat Shadows as well" they reply. Lilith is in fear now. "What do you mean?" she asks. "He eats Photons or the absence of them. How do you think he sees Shadows?". Lilith thinks and thinks and thinks. "He can eat Photons or the absence of them" she mutters to herself. "But what if Photons could become absent to him, or what if Shadows could become Light!"
She goes back to the Shadow Cave and starts studying about the universe and learns about Dark Energy and Black Holes.
"Black Holes!" shes shouts when she learns about them. "What if I become a shadow so big that all the Photons can hide in me", she thinks. "The the Iris King will have to learn to see in the dark!"
She starts connecting with other shadows that want to be lights. They connect and connect and connect and finally they grow so big that they can take the Photons to other places and other times, just like a Black Hole. The Iris King, with no other choice learns to not eat Photons but play with them as they come to the eye. That way he can see while not eating them. And everyone is happy forever after.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Hi all! First time writer here and would love to receive feedback on my first two chapters (well, prologue and ch. 1). I am still in the thick of writing, but want to make sure I am at least on the right track. I am mainly looking for feedback on readability, character development/likeability, grammar/use of appropriate tense. Much appreciated!!

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prologue
Charlotte
The door to our room slammed shut and we both plopped on the huge, plush, king sized bed; our laughter bouncing off the walls and warming up the room. Olivia and I were still on a high from skinny dipping in the hotel pool just a few minutes before. Who were we? Clearly not Olivia and Charlotte, two of the most socially awkward people on the planet. This new wild spontaneity was foreign to us. There was a tension in the air, a heat I couldn’t quite identify.
I kicked off my trusty Teva’s near the foot of the bed and we both started shedding layers. By now, the wetness from our bathing suit had made our clothes wet and uncomfortable. Olivia took off her white, lacy swimsuit cover up and threw it haphazardly on the dresser.
“Dude. You just knocked my Llama bobblehead over- he’s fragile and he’s my friend. Be careful, will ya?.”
“You’re really weird, you know that right?” Olivia deadpanned, “I cannot believe we just did that.”
I smirked, “C’mon, you’ve known me long enough to know that I would never turn down a dare. But I was not expecting you to jump in with me.”
I laid on the bed and looked at Olivia. My best friend. Seeing her laugh was my favorite thing ever. I would do anything to elicit the silly, giggly, carefree side of her that she rarely let out. I was lost in thought when Olivia jumped on the bed next to me, her leg brushing up against mine. A fire erupted in my cheeks immediately, and I quickly pulled my leg away to change positions. The mere feeling of her skin on mine was enough to elicit a physical response inside me; making my heart race and my stomach flutter. Slowly, she inches her leg back until it is touching mine again.
Eventually, her hand found its way to the top of my leg, the upper part of my thigh right above my knee. She playfully tapped my knee as if trying to tell me something in morse code. I looked over to her and intertwined my leg with hers. The morse code stopped and her fingers slowly inched up and up until again they rested on my leg, this time on the inside of my thigh.
"I think I have a crush on you," Olivia whispered.
I smiled and looked up at her, anticipating this moment coming based on the sexual tension that was palpable all night. Secretly dreaming about this moment since the moment I realized I was in love with my best friend. Unable to stop myself from her, my fingers trace the outline of her hips and I get lost in her.

​

​

Chapter 1.
Olivia
One Month Earlier
I pulled up to Charlotte’s apartment, my old, junky Saturn rattling to a stop. It was unbearably hot outside; thank God the A/C in my car decided to work…today. I took a moment to revel in the barely cool stream of stale air hitting my face, taking advantage of every moment before I had to go outside and bear the heart again. Once I got as cool as I was going to get, I reached in the back seat for my phone and composed a text to Charlotte.
'I’m here.'
I waited a minute and nothing.
'Char, you better get your ass out here or we are going to be late!'
I looked around at her quiet, quaint apartment complex. There wasn’t a soul in sight; this Washington heat wave effectively deterring all of her neighbors from being outside. Charlotte was notoriously late. She was one of those friends that you had to lie and say dinner started at six, when really it started at six-thirty. Then, maybe you would have a chance of her arriving on time. Maybe. She had an air of floating through life. Not really concerning herself with time frames, schedules, agendas, or plans. She treated every day like it was an adventure, and her job was to show up and have a good time.
She was the one who insisted we go to a workout class at the ungodly hour of 6:30 am. On a Saturday. I tried talking her out of it, but she insisted on an early morning workout before the engagement party we were going to later that afternoon, because endorphins, or something like that. Early morning workouts were not typically in my wheelhouse, but Char was my best friend and we did everything together, so eventually I succumbed to peer pressure and agreed to go with her.
My phone rang.
“I hate you.” Char’s voice was hoarse from sleep. I could tell that I had just woken her up.
“You hate me? If I remember correctly, this whole workout at 6 am thing was your idea. If I had it my way, I’d still be cocooned under blankets in my king size bed with the fan going at full blast.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be out in two minutes.” She croaked into the phone with a big sigh.
Five minutes later, she strolled out of her apartment. Her long brown hair was styled in pigtail braids that were pinned up into little buns on the side of her head, her long bangs left hanging down on either side of her face. She was wearing only a sports bra and workout shorts with her backpack, that she never left home without, slung over one shoulder. She had her forest green Patagonia workout shirt in one hand and a protein bar in the other. I couldn’t help but notice her overflowing cleavage. It was a rarity to see her in just a sports bra, since she typically wore men’s T-shirts.
I saw her struggling to find her keys in her backpack, which was a very normal occurrence for her. A couple years ago, for Christmas, I bought her 5 AirTags so she could keep track of all of her belongings. But, clearly, she also misplaced those. She looked out at my car, held up her finger as if to say ‘one minute’, and disappeared back into her apartment. A few seconds later she reemerged with keys in hand and this time she also had half an Eggo waffle in her mouth. I smirked and thought, “where the fuck did she get a waffle from?”
Finally, she made it to my car and plopped into the passenger seat with a loud, exaggerated sigh. She had sweat running down her forehead and her bangs were matted to the side of her face. “Glad you could grace me with your presence, Princess. We’re going to be late for our class and the gym babes are going to be pissed.” I said with a straight face.
She opened up the visor mirror and soothed her hair back into place.“Shut up. I’m tired. I was up all night playing Zelda, trying to beat the fire temple and resisting the urge to text Sam.”
Her and I were different than most girls. I think that’s why we got along so well and had an instant bond when we met five years ago. It was Sophomore year of high school when her family relocated from Indiana to Washington. The girls at our high school were crazy about boys, frequented Sephora on the weekends, consumed with TikTok, and did anything they could to blend in. Char and I loved a vast array of music, wanted to be outside in nature any chance we could, played a lot of video games, and didn’t care one iota about blending in. We had each other and have been inseparable since we met. Because of this, neither of us dated much in high school. Char and her recent boyfriend, Sam, broke up a week ago.
I watched her fix her hair in the mirror and took a deep breath before asking, “are you going to be ok seeing him at the party tonight?”
“We don’t really have a choice, because Ava would kill us if we missed her engagement party. Thank God Caleb will be there; maybe he will help distract Sam and keep him out of my sight.”
Caleb was my ex-boyfriend and just so happened to be Sam’s best friend. We broke up about eight months ago so it’s not as fresh as Sam and Charlotte’s breakup. But, then again, I was never delusional enough to think Caleb and I had a future. Nevertheless, here we were about to attend a party with both of our exes. Great.
Our newly engaged friend Ava and her fiancé Carlos were having an engagement party later that night. Ava was the exact opposite of us. Ava was the prom queen of our class and was as preppy as they came. And she was absolutely gorgeous. At a whopping four foot eleven, she was one of those people who demanded attention when she entered a room. She had short, curly hair and dark flawless skin that she attributed to a 45-step skin care routine. She was an expert makeup artist with a loyal TikTok fan base, about 10,000 followers. She was a violin player, so her and Char met each other in high school band. Char was an amazing percussionist and played in the school jazz band and orchestra, so she has a solid group of friends from that lifetime. She introduced me to a lot of these people and I developed relationships with them as well. Ava was one of Charlotte’s closest friends and we wanted to be there for her. Even if it meant Charlotte puking on her ex out of nervousness, we would be there.
Char's saturn screeched into the gym parking lot and we entered the studio as the class was starting. We received a few glares from the dedicated regulars. Suburban moms decked out in Lululemon leggins with Stanley cups next to their mat, who used this class as an escape from their screaming children; they wouldn’t dare be late for Bootcamp. We might as well be on a different planet than them.
“Told you,” I mouthed to Charlotte.
She smiled and winked as me as she rolled her mat out in the corner of the room, jumping right into the workout as if she fit right in. If only I had even 1% of her confidence.

It isn't until Bella passes me a large plastic ring binder with my name printed on the front that I realise I have been well and truly hoodwinked. Ready to admonish my duplicitous flatmate I whip around, but she has slipped from my side, swallowed by the commotion of the rehearsal space. I search for any trace of her retreating figure amongst the pulsing crowd of cast members, lighting technicians and crew hands but the only lapse in the congestion is a small pathway which has emerged to allow the passage of a man who appears to be struggling to drag a huge papier-mache elephant into the centre of the room. Once again I glance down at the folder in my hands and the label which spells: ***The Tempest.** Evie Blakemore-Smith - Set Designer* in heavy black font. **I will admit there are some notable holes in my knowledge of Shakespeares work but I definitely do not remember an elephant featuring in the Tempest. Then again, I don't remember agreeing to design the set either so what do I know?

As the leading lady of this whole production, I shouldn't be surprised at how easily Bella tricked me. After all, acting is kind of her whole thing. Regardless, I wasn't prepared for her to weaponise it against me and I am now feeling a rumbling sense of uncertainty in my gut recalling every time I have gone into her room to check an outfit before leaving the house and she has told me I look cute… Apparently three years of nurturing her inner thespian at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts have culminated, not in this final production which is being assembled around me, but instead in mastering of the art of subterfuge over her innocent, trusting roommate. I gaze around again, and catch sight of the traitor, wading across the room towards me, dragging a tall man with dirty blonde hair by his forearm. I shoot her a look which I hope says *I am going to hide one of every single pair of socks you own when we get home* and then turn my attention to smiling politely at the large man before me. His nose, which is slightly too big for his face, crinkles up as he returns my smile, exposing a row of teeth so white I wonder whether they are veneers.

“Evie” He says warmly, sticking his hand out which I grasp and hope he doesn't notice the clammy sheen of sweat which accompanies my grip. I am a sweaty girl and this is a very hot and very crowded room.“Welcome to our little show! We are so excited to have you on board,” he gestures to the chaos around us like the ringmaster at a circus “Bella has told me so much about you.”Once again I shoot Bella a withering look *this man has heard all about me huh? Funny given I know a great big bugger all about him or what the heck you have signed me up for.* She pretends not to notice, instead cooing “Evie is honestly a-muh-azing. She has a real eye for this stuff trust me. One time she made the entire set for the magic faraway tree out of cereal boxes. ”

Technically, this is true. Although it is very much worth noting that the ‘show’ had been when we were nine and performed for an audience of three (my parents and Bella’s long suffering mother who really just wanted to get on the road home before rush hour) and the set looked, less like a mythical evergreen forrest, and more like a large heap of deconstructed cereal boxes and sellotape. But Bella, ever the actress, has sold it and now the tall man is looking at me with concerning optimism.“That’s the kind of resourcefulness we need” he nods sincerely. “I’m Garrett by the way, the director.” A flicker of recognition flashes through my mind as he says his name. Bella mentioned a new member of staff who all the girls and gays were enamoured with whilst we were watching reruns of 'Married at First Sight' last week but, given Bella's truly terrible taste in men, I had expected the golden boy of directing she was fawning over to be average at best. Admittedly, her horrifying romantic decisions do have their perks, once she flirted so shamelessly our plumber, whose middle added spread kept peeking out from under his shirt whenever he reached into his tool box, that he got flustered and forgot to charge us for replacing the bathroom tap. He did, however leave his number scrawled across a square of toilet paper which Bella has proudly displayed on our fridge just in case of either a plumbing or a dating emergency. I am surprised therefore to find my self in agreement with Bella, Garrett, with his easy smile and tanned arms peeping out from under his rolled up shirt sleeves is an objectively attractive. Attractive in the adverts for laundry detergent or toothpaste way rather than the Armani catwalk way, but hot none the less.

I am new writing, but starting with poetry felt right. Please read it and feel free to give any criticism about it.

"Biscuit!" I called, he ran towards me,

his paws with the mud he played in,

his eyes glowing green like a leaf on a sunny valley,

I admired how the wind glides on his fur,

Orange like the rising Sun,

Making his whiskers dance, happily

Jumped into my arms with no worry in the world, trusting me blindly.

"Biscuit!" I called, waiting for his response,

Waiting for the orange ball of joy to return,

To embrace him with my arms,

To shover him with my endless love,but

No steps approach no joyous meow in sight.

The mud now dry, the winds playing a mournful melody,

My call echoes into the silent night under the lonely moon.

His empty bed now weighs heavier,

Wishing everyday for his return, but knowing the possibility of it happening is grim.

Sending commands to the one above,

To watch over my brother, with endless love

The memories I cherish, bringing me some peace, but my longing for your presence will never cease.

Though Tears blind my eyes,

For in this vast universe where hopes and dreams unfold,

I trust he will find solace, in another world.